The Things They Carry
by Joanne Mariexx
Summary: <html><head></head>"Sweets is gone. There's a trail of blood across the first level parking lot of Sanderson Chemical. Skid marks across the center of the floor. There's a broken phone on the ground that sure looks like Sweets', an emptied gun by its side, but no evidence other than that. The security cameras, all taken out. No stray bullet fragments or shell cases to be found." Alternate S10.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh, look, another alternate ending. Obviously, this isn't going to match up with the conspiracy the show has given us, so I'm creating a new one. Also, I didn't read over this before posting, so criticize away. Help would be appreciated. Also reviews. Thanks.**

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><p><em><strong>Part One: Evanescent  tending to vanish like vapor**_

_"He'd lost everything. He'd lost Kiowa and his weapon and his flashlight and his girlfriend's picture. He remembered this.  
>He remembered wondering if he could lose himself."<em>

_― Tim O'Brien, _ The Things They Carried __

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><p>"<em>What do you mean, he's gone?"<em>

No sooner does Booth ask that question than Aubrey lets loose another flurry of panicked, jumbled words, just like before. And, if he correctly understood _any_ small percentage of what he said the first time, they probably don't have time for panic or stuttering or incompetency of any sort.

"Hey, _hey,"_ the agent says firmly, stepping away from Brennan and the older man. "_Slow down. _What do you mean?"

And the words come out in that same rushed style, only slightly slower and infinitely more understandable. It may not be what Booth wants to hear – but at least he gets it. Sort of.

Sweets is gone. There's a trail of blood across the first level parking lot of Sanderson Chemical. Skid marks across the center of the floor. There's a broken phone on the ground that sure looks like Sweets', an emptied gun by its side, but no evidence other than that. The security cameras, all taken out. No stray bullet fragments or shell cases to be found.

It's not much. But it's enough for Booth to grab Brennan by the elbow as soon as he hangs up, usher her away from their interviewee and throw a hasty goodbye over his shoulder as they rush to the car, with Brennan asking all the while what went wrong. It's not until they're in the car and speeding back toward that chemical plant that he tells her.

And what could she possibly say to that?

Events have been piling up in layers, blurring together like slides, and – in the midst of the chaos – the two are beyond hollow words of comfort or useless expressions of worry. They only fall on ears that have heard it all before and know its worthlessness. Fear cannot be defeated by ideas alone.

Actions, on the other hand – like tearing through the city streets with sirens screaming viciously in their breathless rush for answers – those have potential. Those might accomplish something.

But when they finally screech to a stop in the parking lot where Aubrey is pacing, running nervous fingers through his hair with enough force to rip it all out, they're suddenly not so sure about that. Regardless, they're out of the car in seconds, switching (not so) seamlessly into the detective mode they're so accustomed to, trying to ignore the circumstance that brought them here. Whether or not they succeed is an open ended question.

Brennan is the first to speak as Booth opens the back of his SUV to rummage through his supplies. She scans her surroundings and turns to face Aubrey and his saucer eyes, speaking clearly and quickly.

"Have you touched the evidence at all?"

Dr. Temperance Brennan has always carried herself in a way that demands respect and – although this was never her intention – instills fear. And though she has never been the type of person to enjoy frightening people, she finds it works well for her when she needs something done. Special Agent James Aubrey is no exception.

As most people do when meeting her for the first time, he stutters and rambles.

"No, ma'am," he says. "No, I haven't touched it at all. I was going to try and gather evidence into bags, but I didn't have any in my car and I figured it would be best to wait until you and Agent Booth arrived so as to avoid any possible error on my part. So I haven't touched any of it, ma'am."

She only nods.

Booth emerges from the back of his truck, holding evidence bags in one hand and three pairs of rubber gloves in the other. They are distributed evenly among them, and they scan the area without another word, bagging evidence, taking blood samples, noting everything. By the time they finish, they have found nothing that gives them any idea of who took Sweets or where they could have gone. The blood sample, they agree, will be taken to the Jeffersonian to be analyzed, although they already have an eerie idea of whose it is. The reliability of assumption pales in comparison to that of science, after all.

Before they leave, just to be certain, Booth sends Aubrey to ask about the security tapes and see if they could discover what led up to what was no doubt a very violent attack. And, of course, the young agent is practically shooed out as soon as he walks through the door to the offices, in true "get-a-goddamn-warrant" fashion. There may or may not have been a crack about Doogie Howser going into law enforcement as he left, but regardless, Aubrey's perfectly willing to ignore it.

Thus the ride back to the Jeffersonian was a quiet one, with no evidence to offer the lab other than Sweets' discarded things and a heavy feeling of dread in the pits of their stomachs.

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><p>One day goes by, and the lab discovers nothing. There are no bones left behind to analyze, no flesh, no bugs. There is the blood, easily identified as Sweets', but nothing to show how he lost it. There are tire tracks, photographed and catalogued, but that alone can't identify much. Michelin tires, basic tread, defender series. That's all.<p>

Imagine a spinning wheel held just above the ground, and you've got the Jeffersonian team. A group full of incredibly talented scientists and one star agent who can't do much more than spin and fidget and wait for something new to surface while their friend was gone without a trace.

Booth, he's waiting for the warrant he needs to send Aubrey to get the tapes from Sanderson.

The rest of them, they're waiting for those tapes. Because God knows they've looked at every small bit of evidence enough times to recite the facts by heart, and they still have not found even a tiny clue to where Sweets is or who took him. They don't even have enough evidence to say, in all truth, that Sweets is still alive – but they would certainly prefer to make this assumption than to consider the alternative.

They desperately, desperately need those tapes.

And it's a damn shame that Booth will never receive them, not even with Caroline hounding the higher-ups for the warrant every chance she gets.

Instead, all he receives is a single email, Pelant-esque in its cryptic anonymity. No sender, no subject, no timestamp – just a single sentence that burns the agent's eyes to read.

_I highly recommend that you stop digging in the Bureau._

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><p>Another day goes by without rest. Then another. Days two and three vanish into the air, and they are no closer to solving this kidnapping than they were on day one.<p>

The FBI sends their message to Booth denying his request for a warrant halfway through day four.

Booth questions their lack of commitment to finding one of their own agents, marching hotly into the director's office on day five. The bureau offers no comment.

By day six, Booth is fully prepared to say that this case has gone to hell. That, however, is not completely accurate. Brennan levels with him, and they decide that this whole case already was hell. And all has really done is rise.

He finds a case file on his desk on morning seven, when he stumbles into his office with his third cup of coffee in hand. It's nothing different than a normal work day as far as his desk is concerned – and that's how it will stay, if the assignment sheet on top has anything to say about it. No transferring this new case to another agent. No putting it off. There's even a handwritten note in the margin, addressed directly to him from one of his superiors.

_If you are still concerned about the disappearance of Dr. Lance Sweets, we advise you to step back from this case. We have other agents in other divisions investigating it to the very best of their abilities. The safety and wellbeing of our men and women are of the utmost importance. Do not doubt that, Agent Booth, as they are working tirelessly to find him. In the meantime, we must expect you to continue your assigned work. Good luck._

It takes a great deal of self-control not to drop this new assignment in the shredder. In that moment, Seeley Booth is struck with the sudden idea that he may, in fact, be in over his head. Nerves begin to dig at the lining of his stomach, and soon, he's flipping through the pages of that case file. The sooner they finish this case, after all, the sooner they can ignore the FBI's empty assurances and continue looking for Sweets themselves. They have no time for empty assurances. They have no time to waste on normal cases. They have no time to waste on anything other than finding Lance Sweets.

They can only hope that their time is not already up.

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><p><strong>AN: Aka the most rushed end to a chapter I've ever written. Some advice on how to fix it would be lovely.**

**Not sure when the next part will be out. I think I'll try to work a little on What You Own first.**

**Thanks for reading - **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hmm. This chapter started out poetic, ended kinda weak, I think. Can't figure out how to fix it, and I don't want to wait any longer to post this. Any help would be great! Enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to review! :D**

**(P.S., in reply to LMC's review - I don't really know! There might be a day when I decide to go back and watch the rest of season ten, but for now, I haven't been watching. I still feel kinda betrayed by the writers; and for now, I think I'm pretty content just _writing _about Bones. Gives me my own little canon, I suppose. So yeah. :) Thanks for your review and support!)  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Part Two: Liberation  freedom from limits; release**

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."  
>― Sylvia Plath, <em>The Bell Jar<em>

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><p><span>Four Months Later<span>

They find him in the new year; two weeks in, on a day when the sun is bright and the sky is clear. The snow on the ground won't melt, but instead freezes over, leaving a hard, shining shell over the ground – the kind you slip on when you stop paying attention. They find him when the air is thin and bitter and their breath rises to meet the sky above their heads, when it's nearly too cold for Booth's fingers to move well enough to answer the call when it comes.

He almost misses it because of his damn fingers.

And when he answers it, it's not Angela, like he expects it to be. It's not Cam or Hodgins or Daisy or even Aubrey, and it certainly can't be Bones. She's standing right next to him, on the corner by the diner, waiting for the crossing signal to change – so she's there when a stranger's voice speaks right into Booth's ear. She's there to watch Booth's face change, a sure sign that something big is about to happen. Whether it's something wonderful or terrible, though, is left to her imagination.

The way Booth grabs her hand and pulls her across the street once the call is finished leads her to believe that it is a combination of both.

Booth climbs into his SUV and starts it up in the same second, and Brennan barely has time to buckle her seat belt before he's peeling away from the curb and speeding down the street. Her voice is barely heard over the engine's downshift, the sirens blasting above them, as she asks him what's happening.

It takes him a few seconds to loosen his jaw enough to answer her.

"They found him."

Cars are moving perfectly out of their way, blown to the shoulder like leaves from their path.

"They found him?"

There's that feeling in her gut like she's been jolted, breathless, and it's the only thing reminding her that this is, in fact, reality. Breathing and thinking are never difficult in dreams - especially dreams she's spent months hoping would come true.

Booth doesn't reply. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the road, his jaw set once more. Brennan continues in her search for answers, an urgent tone slipping through as she asks.

"Booth, what did they say? Is he alright?"

His voice is quiet, nearly washed away by all of the sounds around them.

"Yeah," he finally answers. "He's alive. They said he's okay."

Brennan's bones are suddenly calm again, her whole body relaxing against the seat. A breath she didn't realize she was holding is let out and freed. Meanwhile, the road keeps rushing by, rushing by, rushing by them in one big dizzying blur of gravel and lights and people and ice.

"Then why don't you seem relieved?"

He glances over at her once, twice as he drives, his mouth a line, his eyes dark and distant. He's not with her in that moment; he's somewhere far away.

"I don't believe them."

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><p>Word travels fast. And how could it not?<p>

Missing FBI psychologist-slash-agent Dr. Lance Sweets turns up alive after four months of APBs and continuous investigation following a violent kidnapping. It's a goddamn headline already. Or at least it would be, if there were any reporters around. But as it stands, nobody but the doctors, nurses and technicians on the hospital's third floor has been allowed to do much more than glance in the direction of his room - at least until his contacts were notified. Thank God for protocols.

Currently, those protocols are being followed in terms of the forms. Sitting in some stark, carpeted office, Booth finds himself on the receiving end of a stream of papers, skimming over the important parts and signing each one with a lazy flick of his wrist. He could care less about what he's signing, if he's honest; he'd sign his soul away if it meant getting to Sweets faster.

Thankfully, that isn't necessary. They take him and Brennan to him after just ten minutes of paperwork and legal briefing. As if he really needed legal briefing. Regardless, they take him – but as he walks behind a nurse with Brennan's hand held tightly in his own, a sudden hesitation plants itself in the back of his mind and nearly slows him to a stop. What would they find when they finally reached that room? They said Sweets was alive, they told him over the phone. But _alive _– it's a blanket word. It could mean so many different things.

It could mean _alive, but barely._ It could mean _breathing, but struggling. _ It could mean _there's a machine-made heartbeat, artificial function, maybe __it's time to consider organ donation for what's left of him__. _He's seen it before. It could mean _mangled and destroyed beyond recognition or repair, in more ways than one. _He's seen that too. His heart does not stop racing and hammering in his ears until they're standing just in front of that closed door, and that single word _alive _is finally defined for him.

"He was brought in unconscious with a few broken ribs and a mild head injury, but that's all that's current," a young doctor, all concerned eyes and soft features, explains. "There's evidence of other injuries as well, from a couple x-rays and other scans we did, but those have either already healed or are in the process of healing. He's in pretty good shape, considering. He's been asleep, but you can see him, if you'd like."

She opens the door with that, and, true to her word, Dr. Lance Sweets is fast asleep, safe and sound. There's an IV port sticking out from a thin left wrist, a few stitches up by his hairline, but his face is soft and relaxed. For a moment, it hasn't really been four months. It's been a day - a long, terrifying day that's finally over, and now Booth can finally breathe and rest his bones. Unless he's already asleep, and this is all just another too-good-to-be-true dream – but he glances over at Brennan's misty eyes, digs a fingernail into his own palm, and it's all suddenly real. Strangely, surreally real.

There's something magnetic about this room. Something that draws Booth's hand into Brennan's, draws them both into chairs by the side of the bed. The doctor doesn't leave; instead, she crosses the room and leafs through the clipboard on the far wall for a moment before pulling it down and bringing it back to them.

"There is something else, though," she adds, "that I think you should see. There were some gashes that did not require stitches, thin ones that have just started closing. They were on his back..."

The words alone make his blood freeze in his veins, his chest ache as if he were just crudely woken from a dream - or thrown into a nightmare. His running thoughts stop in their tracks.

"We've cataloged and photographed them. They wouldn't normally be of much concern to us, but... as you can see..."

She holds up a glossed photograph, and their hearts nearly stop.

It's there, written in thin, barely-closed cuts across the entire top half of his back.

_THERE IS NO CONSPIRACY._

Booth nearly throws up right on the spot. Brennan's hand curls tighter around his, and they stare for as long as they can stand to look before, resigned and silent, Booth hands the photo back to the doctor. He says nothing about it. Instead -

"Who found him?" His voice is quiet, shaken.

"We don't know," is the answer he receives. That's been the answer to most of his questions over the past four months, and this is no exception. Quite frankly, he's not surprised. "There was an anonymous 911 call placed that directed responders to him. They found him unconscious and alone somewhere in Maryland."

_Unconscious and alone. _Those words seem misplaced, so completely sinful when applied to the sleeping man next to them. It's nearly wrong to picture – after four months of whatever he went through, this four-month long nightmare, Lance Sweets was left alone, scarred and bleeding in the cold. In that moment, Seeley Booth can sympathize with a few of the killers he's put away over the years.

So, leaning back in his plastic chair, hand still tucked neatly into Brennan's, he prepares himself for a long vigil. He's not leaving Sweets alone again – not today, probably not ever – and Brennan seems to have the same idea. She drops her bag onto the floor and makes herself comfortable as the doctor nods her head at the two before leaving the room. Then they wait. They wait for their friends to arrive, for Sweets to wake up; they wait for the moment that they can find whoever did this. Because God knows, as soon as they do –

There will be hell to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, so I was so happy with the first part before I realized I forgot to include certain details. Then I just kinda shoved them in wherever they sorta fit. So if it seems confusing anywhere, please let me know. :) And the second part is probably just really weak; I have no experience writing Daisy's point of view. As always, reviews are welome and appreciated!**

**Edit: Ps, I also have no idea how APBs work, but I'm pretty sure they're not how I described them. Not the first time I've blatantly made shit up haha. I'm willing to just roll with it if you are. ;) Enjoy! **

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><p>"<em>Bones."<em>

_The keyboard tapping, the light from the computer scream, they fill the room. They hold her focus, and she barely notices her husband enter; such is typical when she's focused on something important. He knows that. The tapping pauses for just a fraction of a second, her eyes coming up to glance his way, before continuing again. She's too far into what she's doing to offer her husband anything more than a curt nod to acknowledge that she even heard him._

_He won't take that, of course._

"_Bones, come to bed."_

_She types out a few more words, reads for just another quick second before finally giving her attention to Booth – however short-lived it may end up being._

"_I can't. Not yet."_

_And she very nearly goes right back to it, but pauses when she sees the hard, tired look on Booth's face. The lines of exhaustion on his forehead, the greying circles just underneath his eyes, they're all prominent features at this point. He needs sleep, and is probably just inches away from pulling Brennan upstairs to join him._

_But she can't._

"_Booth, I –"_

"_What are you working on?" he asks, his voice flat and quiet. They've been up to their eyes in assignments, not least of which was their own missing person's case. She could have anything up on that screen, could be pouring over every small detail pertaining to _whatever. _It doesn't much matter. Nevertheless, he sits down on the couch beside her and leans his head over to look._

_Temperance Brennan, never a woman of subtlety, closes the lid of the laptop in one soft, fluid motion. The statistics on the screen, the case files, the notes and research, they're now invisible. Perhaps if they can't see them, they'll cease to exist; they'll lose their validity, their power. But Brennan – not a woman of subtlety, but of pure science and reasoning – knows that is not the case. Facts, of course, are ubiquitous, ever-present. You could fight them to the bitter end, but they'll always win._

"_Booth," she feels him tense beside her as she speaks, eyes to the carpet. She braces herself. "You need to adjust the APBs. And the missing person's report."_

"_What do you mean?" If she would just glance up at his face, she'd see his eyes, clouded with confusion. It translates into his voice, though – so she need not look. It's all the same, really._

_She breathes deep and forces the words out. _

"_You need to take out the word _alive. _The possibility that – that we may find nothing but remains, it needs to be included."_

_She should have expected the wide shake of Booth's head, the firm, "No," he gives automatically. Why would he respond any differently?_

"_No," he repeats, standing up from the couch and running an exasperated hand through his hair. "No, I'm not doing that. Not yet. Sweets is alive, Bones, I'm telling you. I'm not changing it yet, no way."_

_The lid of the computer comes back up as quickly as it went down, displaying pages on pages of bitter statistics._

"_Booth, you know how unlikely it is that we'll find him alive. It's been _three months_. And the messages stopped weeks ago. All I'm saying is that you need to consider –"_

_He rounds on her. She expected it this time – not that it changes anything, of course._

"_He's _alive, _Bones! Conspiracies aren't normal missing person's cases, you know that! And if they were going to kill him, Bones, they would have just killed him and been done with it. They woulda left him on the floor of that parking lot to die, and _then_ we'd be finding his body. But they took him somewhere! And then they wouldn't have contacted us at all if they killed him, Bones. They had a plan to use him, you gotta see that! People don't kill useful hostages."_

_Standing in the middle of the room, arms dropped to his sides, Seeley Booth looks completely and utterly dumbfounded. Lost for words, at this point._

"_Booth," she starts, her eyes locked firmly on his this time. "I am an extremely capable, skilled forensic anthropologist. Cam, Hodgins, Angela, Daisy, Aubrey, you and me – we're all talented in our work. And our work is to catch killers. Everyone in the FBI knows it. Whoever is pulling the strings of this conspiracy, why would they leave Sweets' body behind if we could identify the killer so easily? Have you considered that? To whoever took Sweets, he's dispensable if the plan doesn't work. So using him as incentive, or whatever they wanted – if it didn't work, they probably killed him. It's just logic, Booth, you –"_

"_Bones, you're giving up on him!" Booth finally shouts, his voice rising to meet the ceiling. She flinches. He barely notices. "You are completely _giving up_ on him! Do you think he'd ever give up on you? If it were you missing, you know he would never suggest that. He wouldn't give up hope of finding you alive, not for a second!"_

_She shoves the computer to the side, onto the cushion of the couch, and stands tall, in the most intimidating pose she can muster. The cool, collected voice of reasoning has gone silent, mostly overtaken by her yelling right back to Booth, "I am _not_ giving up on him! Don't you dare think for one second that I am! I want to find him alive just as much as you do. He's just as much family to me as he is to you, and you know I would never give up on him like that. You _know_ that! I'm just looking at facts, Booth, and the facts…"_

_She deflates, her frustration disappearing just as fast as it appeared. She whispers, and if a few tears start trailing down her cheeks, Booth says nothing about them._

"_The facts say that he's probably dead."_

_And he wants to keep yelling. He wants to keep insisting that the facts are wrong, that Sweets is not – he can't be dead. God, the kid's twenty nine, just shy of thirty. He can't be dead._

_Those words tug at his mind but don't reach his mouth. He drops it. _

_He makes the necessary changes to the reports a week later._

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><p>Daisy Wick has already decided by the time she steps off the elevator that the number three-sixteen is the most beautiful number she has ever heard. Dazzling, glorious – for the single reason that she'll find Lance Sweets in the room with that number displayed by the door. After four months, a near-boundless stretch of waiting and endless searching, after chasing leads that led them in circles, she's finally seen the end. Or at least the home stretch.<p>

A mid-afternoon phone call from Seeley Booth, a hospital location, a kind-eyed receptionist repeating the room number over again and assuring her that he is well and truly _alive_. If she hadn't just been driving with one eye on the dashboard clock, counting every minute until she's once again by her boyfriend's side, she'd be certain that it all was just a hazy dream. She's never really believed in God before – but she can suddenly see the appeal. Perhaps miracles, scientifically unsound as they may seem, anomalous as they may be, are not strictly myths.

Her thoughts run in time with the click of her heels on the linoleum floor, quick yet controlled. And when she finally reaches the doorway – they screech to a halt.

The last time she saw Lance Sweets' face, it was smiling at her as he pulled the house door closed behind him, leaving. He blew a kiss, threw her a quick, "Love you," and he was gone. He didn't come home after that. And now here he is – his face beautifully calm and soft in sleep, his chest rising and falling perfectly, proof of life. She swipes her eyes and stares, barely daring to believe it. But God, it must be true; he's _alive_.

"Yeah, he's alive," Booth's rough voice echoes in her ears, proof that she was apparently just speaking aloud. If he or Brennan minded her interruption, though, they don't say as much. The agent stands from his chair and envelopes her in a gentle hug. She returns it forcefully. "He's alive. They found him."

After a few long moments, they pull apart and Brennan stands to receive her intern's grateful embrace in turn. And once they're apart, they just turn to stare at Sweets, who's still oblivious to all of them. He has no idea he's found, no clue he's safe. But perhaps the gentle hand Daisy cups his cheek with as Booth and Brennan sit back down, perhaps it will give him the message. The soft warmth of her lips on his forehead, the tickle of her hair on his shoulder, even the smell of her perfume if he could make it out – perhaps they'd be home enough for him. She cards a hand through his hair and kisses him again, just as much for her own sake as it is for his.

Booth finds her a chair, and she's soon seated as close to his left side as possible, his warm hand held tightly in her own. She shows no signs of leaving, at least for the time being. Neither do Booth and Brennan. Thus, the vigil continues.


End file.
